And Here We Go Again
by erdbeerpfannkuchen
Summary: AU. Tom Branson, a budding postgrad law student, has found work in the U.S. capitol with a bigshot lawyer, Mr. Crawley. When Tom falls in love with Mr. Crawley's youngest daughter, can the two manage a relationship around the Crawley family's conservative ways? K for now, will probably become M-MA. Loosely follows DA plot, plus plenty of filling in of the plot holes.
1. He's Hired

The job market was decidedly shitty, so he really should have been grateful for his old job. However boring his former occupation was, working in his home state wasn't bad. Clerking for the local trial court was anything but exciting, but provided a form of stable income and a decent break room. As ironic as it was, and despite his politics, Tom always imagined himself having some form of real importance with his job. Yes, sure, he could edit a brief well enough, but he wasn't the judge determining the intricacies of a contract and its legality. He just gathered references for court opinions and made it sound better. It was work made more for an English student. While this wasn't a grandiose job itself, being a local judge made a difference. As much as being the clerk was grueling and generally unpleasant, since judges are forbidden to behave politically (at least, they're supposed to be impartial in regards to politics) and behaving politically was his life, he at least got to keep his political affiliation and allow it to be known in the public realm. Though Massachusetts had become a hotbed of debate thanks to the framework of the state's healthcare system becoming a nationalized issue, he had really had quite enough of local politics. Tom longed for national and international crises to write about, or speak about, or maybe even mediate, one day. And as much as he loved Quincy, he desperately needed to leave. So when the first opportunity in Washington came along, he took it.

* * *

The mid-afternoon sun shone on the small building, painted a pastel yellow color, with white, regal second empire windows that almost looked surprised to see you. Two garden boxes, filled with bougainvillea this time of year, hung from the lowermost windows. Underneath the rightmost one was a little gold post slot, emblazed with the golden numbers 2532 above it in almost cursive style letters. _Crawley & Strallan, LLC_ was written on the door with letters in a font to match the numbers. Tom sat inside. It was all very groomed, this part of the city. Watching the well-dressed locals stroll by-some with dogs, some with newspapers, some with cell phones- in the D.C. suburb, Tom felt more and more nervous, and, if anything, unfashionable. It was late summer, if you can call the beginning of August late. Amongst the Brooks Brother's ties and Armani suits, he looked drab in his hand-me-down sport coat with worn elbow patches. His dark green wool tie was uncomfortably hot (Washington summers were not underestimated) adding to the already blooming sweat on his brow. He stared at his knees and smoothed his pants. "Easy now," he thought to himself. "Plane tickets are expensive."

"Planning to stay, are we?"

Tom glanced up at the voice. Shit, of course he had spoken aloud. A terrible habit. "If all goes well sir, I certainly would like to, if possible, if Mr. Crawley will have me, sir."

The man's face remained stoic. He was old and solid, with a suspicious expression, emphasized by his thick eyebrows, which seemed to have migrated from his thinning hair, and was rifling through a library kept on the wall across from the entrance. Neatly arranged, leather bound books filled the wall, the only exception being the two doors on either end of the wall. Some of the copies looked so aged, they could be from the time Washington was a few tobacco fields and a swamp. "I should certainly hope he makes up his mind soon. Mr. Crawley is rather selective, which I applaud. But, if he must keep delaying the inevitable, caution for the right person will be overshadowed by the need to have anyone at all. I would like whomever he settles on to have the right credentials, but to find him post haste." Through his heavy brows, he looked down at Tom. "If you fit this description, I wish you luck."

Tom smiled, albeit awkwardly. "Thank you, erm-…?"

"You may address me as Mr. Carson," was all the reply he received.

"Thank you, then, Mr. Carson."

"Don't take it as a compliment. You're not hired yet."

Tom sighed deeply. Class seemed so much more overt here than up north.

The leftmost door opened, and another man poked his head through. "Mr. Carson, Mr. Crawley would like a word."

Mr. Carson placed a book he was examining back on the shelf. Using his cane, the other man pushed open the rest of the door, and stepped aside, allowing Mr. Carson entry. All Tom could see of the room was a striped green wallpaper, an aging lamp, and a wooden desk, all set before another door. After he had passed through, the man with the cane limped a few steps into the front room. "You are Mr. Branson, I presume? We've been expecting you. You haven't been waiting too long, have you?"

"No, sir, I arrived early, all my fault. I wanted to be punctual." Tom answered, suddenly much more aware of his heavy accent and his sweating palms.

The man smiled. "No harm in that, though too early is also a crime. I'm Mr. Crawley's clerk," he paused. "Most people call me Mr. Bates."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bates," Tom answered, and extended his hand. He quickly noticed he would be receiving the hand which held his cane, and changed it. Mr. Bates smiled, and took it. "It's a pleasure."

"Good to meet you too, Mr. Branson."

"You may call me Tom, if you'd like."

"No need for informalities yet."

The grandfather clock in the corner struck three. Tom had spent about an hour waiting, if you count being ready but pacing around the area for forty five minutes to calm his nerves, followed by waiting in the actual building for fifteen.

"Well," Mr. Bates began, after a moment of silence. "Your appointment is now, though Mr. Carson is usually the one to bring in the prospectives."

"I can wait, if that is how it is done."

As if called, Mr. Carson strolled through the open door, and stood in front of the two men. "Mr. Branson, Mr. Crawley is waiting."

Mr. Bates returned to his desk, and led by Mr. Carson, Tom headed through the next room, the first door shutting behind them, to Mr. Crawley's door, behind Mr. Bates's desk. The room was small and pleasant, the closed doors, while uninviting, were not too horrid, as the two windows in the room made it feel spacious. Mr. Carson announced that "Mr. Branson" was present and awaiting permission to enter. Mr. Branson twisted the handle of his old brown leather bag. While Tom wasn't fashionable like these people, he had matched the bag to his shoes and his elbow patches. He looked rather put together for a penniless graduate.

"Well, come on in, then," was the call from the other side of the door. Mr. Carson pushed it open.

* * *

Mr. Crawley sat, in his large leather chair, behind an unfurled copy of the Post's Metro section. "Carson, did you hear about the wine tasting in Alexandria?"

"I did, sir. Does it interest you? I know you've been asking for another few vintages."

Mr. Crawley put down his paper, which covered his desk calendar, and stood up. He wasn't much older, if he was, than Mr. Bates, handsome but graying. A few lines showed his wisdom on his mouth and eyes. "Yes, yes, I'll discuss this with you after the meeting. Maybe you can look into new decanting accessories there."

Mr. Carson smiled proudly. "Certainly, sir. Shall I polish the clock in the meantime?"

Mr. Crawley gave a half smile. "Well, wouldn't want you twiddling your thumbs, now, would we?"

With that, Mr. Carson left, and closed the door. Tom and Mr. Crawley were left in silence.

Mr. Crawley, who was still standing, looked down at Tom.

"Hello, Mr. Branson. Welcome."

Tom stood up and extended his hand. "Hello, sir, it's an honor and a pleasure." Mr. Crawley took it.

"Well, my boy," replied Mr. Crawley, "I hope you feel the same after we're done here."

Tom seated himself again, on one of the plush leather chairs seated in Mr. Crawley's office. It was notably smaller than the throne of a desk chair Mr. Crawley himself sat in. He loved Psychology books, and surmised it was probably done to show his power. It worked. His desk was made of dark, regal cherry, his lamp undoubtedly heirloom and customized gold fountain pens were strewn across fine stationary. This was it, Tom thought. This was the 1%.

"So, Harvard, eh?" Mr. Crawley began.

"Yessir. All seven years."

"I can certainly hear it in you."

Tom smiled. "Born and bred northerner, sir."

"Where exactly did you work again, during your last clerkship?"

"The Land Court Department in Boston."

"What exactly did you deal with?"

"Contractual stuff, mostly. Lot of property title dealings."

"Mmm." Mr. Crawley paused. "Have you ever done any work with inheritance, and wills, and the like, and all entailing their involvement?"

Tom smiled. "Of course. All the usual stuff. I did a lot of studying of property rights in college." He kept from mentioning his focus was in public ownership. He had a feeling that Mr. Crawley cared much more for the private. More contentious in court.

"Well, good. Why did you want to leave Massachusetts? Boston is bustling, isn't it?" He leaned forward, folding his hands together, elbows just off the table. Southern manners.

Tom smiled. He had never gotten the hang of interviews. What was witty, and what was caustic and off-putting? What was respectful, and what was groveling?  
"It is, sir, but my job was rather boring, so to speak. I love Boston, it was the busywork I didn't like. And what with so much attention being paid to it this election season, Massachusetts is a little too contentious for me. Boston had its time as a political epicenter, and in a lot of ways it still is, but it's not as fitting anymore. I want to be around political upheaval, I should go to the heart, right?"

"I like that way of thinking. Go to where the action is. Find the intricacies. Learn the details. It works out very well if you're a student of law. There are loopholes in everything." Mr. Crawley smiled. "I suppose no one ever finishes being a student, do they?"

"No, I suppose not," Tom replied. "Speaking of, do you suppose I could take a look at your bookshelf sometime? The one out front?"

"The ones lining the walls you will get to know very well, if you want to pass the Bar here. "

"Not those- the works of literature and science and all. Any about?"

"Not really, though the public library isn't far."

"I'd love to hear about the history of D.C. I'm afraid my memory is a bit rusty on American history. I hope, if I do come to stay, I'll learn more about it."

Mr. Crawley pulled back, settling into his chair. "Well, good. You should plan on it. Your recommendation was outstanding and your work product, as boring as you felt it was, meets our standard. You'll mostly be doing bookkeeping, and proofreading, but I'm sure you'll work your way up." Pushing himself out of his chair, Mr. Crawley stood before Tom, and extended his arm, looking as regal as his gilded fountain pen. "Welcome to Crawley and Strallan. You'll start Monday."

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	2. Nothing to Worry About

"I really don't think it's manageable, Miss Sybil."

"Gwen, honestly. There's plenty of options for you."

Gwen was nineteen, only two years older than the newly seventeen Sybil. Her first job was here, at the Downton house, and ever since, Sybil had been encouraging her to find somewhere better. The day that Sybil found a poem she had written, dropped from her purse, she had never let Gwen forget of her dreams to write. Gwen set down her bucket, and frowned at the girl leaning in the doorway. "No one in my family has gone to college yet."

"There's a first time for everything," Sybil announced, twirling a loose brown curl on her forefinger. "I think you can do it."

Gwen dipped a sponge into her bucket and started scrubbing the bathroom tiles on the floors of the third floor guest bathroom in the stately house on Downton Avenue. It was a nice yellow color, much like the color of Mr. Crawley's office. However, the Downton house was freestanding, with a number of garden plots around it, with flowers in bloom during every season. Scattered through it were little enclaves, surrounded by hedges, perfect for reading on a nice afternoon, or just to be alone during tea. One or two of them were large enough for a garden party. Sybil's favorite area had a little fountain where she kept turtles. It was just a few blocks down from Observatory Circle, where the Vice President's Residence was. And it required a lot of upkeep. And Sybil resented it.

"Miss Sybil, I'm thankful enough to have a job. I really don't think it's fair to just turn my backs on them."

"The way my father talks about working your way up from the bottom, you'd think he'd invented the idea." She rolled her eyes for emphasis, making Gwen snicker. "I recommend you keep on your mother's healthcare, but he'd be a horrible hypocrite if he treated you badly for wanting to leave for an education."

"Miss Sybil-"

"Gwen, honestly, just call me Sybil. Every time I ask you…"

"It's habit. If I mistakenly call Miss Mary just 'Mary'…"

"She has a heart, Gwen."

The maid went back to her tiles, making little circular patterns, slow and forlorn. Sybil continued to twirl her hair in the silence, thinking with a furrowed brow, watching the rhythmic pattern of the scrubbing.

"What if you just applied to college? I'll pay for your application fee."

"I don't want to be indebted to you."

"You won't be."

"Miss-"

"Gwen."

"… Sybil, I just don't think it's a good time to be optimistic."

Her boots removed, Sybil crouched next to her housemaid on the tiles, pulling another sponge from the arsenal, and began mimicking Gwen, trying to clean the other end of the bathroom that the other hadn't yet started on. "There's no bad time to be optimistic."

"Sybil, this has bleach in it, you'll ruin your clothes."

"Are you kidding? Bleach looks great on jeans. And seriously, Gwen, you can just say you took a gap year to work. You can apply this fall. There's lots of good community colleges if it's the grades you're worried about."

Gwen gritted her teeth, and scrubbed harder. "You don't get it. Even if I had the money, what am I going to do after? I have no passions other than poetry and prose, and lovely as it is, it won't get you anywhere. Besides, what can you do with an English degree other than teach? I could never be good enough to get published."

"Well, that's what school is for, isn't it?" Sybil gave a wry smile.

"Speaking of, you have like, ten minutes before it starts."

Without another word, and without breathe, Sybil sprinted out of the bathroom and off to the streets of Georgetown. "Thank you!" she shouted before the door slammed behind her.

Gwen could only chuckle and return to work.

* * *

"What do you MEAN, you can't walk there? Take the metro, take a taxi! Why must _I _do it?"

The office, though large in comparison to the others lining the charming, narrow streets of Georgetown, was all to small when Mr. Crawley was angry. He had not been here long, and yet there was almost daily comparisons to Mr. Crawley's temper and the earthquake last year. The stronger force, at least amongst the personal assistants, coffee boys and secretaries, was obvious. Tom found it hard to fit in. At noon, everyone would leave for lunch, most of them headed for Clyde's. Since he was uncomfortable asking to go along, he would just score whatever the special was at the closest food truck. His desk was mostly separate from the others, across from Bates's, and he didn't socialize well enough to join everyone else in the hall. Mr. Bates had told him he would fit in eventually, but he doubted more as every day passed. Tom was very alright with being solitary, but it would be nice if someone would make a casual reference to an inside joke as they passed his desk from time to time.

"Cora, you know the numbers for a town car. They don't all smell like smoke. I don't care if she's going to meet the King of England, I'm busy." A resigned sigh fell from Mr. Crawley's lips. "Alright, I'll see what I can do."

The door swung open, and the room, previously silent, hung with a sort of fear. "Tom, may I have a word?"

* * *

"I'm not sure if I know the way, but-"

"Oh, it's just around the corner. It said you were a chauffer for a time on your resume, did it not?"

"Yeah, my brother owned a shop up in Boston before he came to Philly and he had a limo, and I did it for a while through college, but-"

"It's quite good enough for me. Is your car large enough to carry three in the back?"

"Well-"

Mr. Crawley sighed, as he was prone to doing of late. "Take my car."

Tom balked. "I really can't, sir-"

"Part of your duties here are to assist me. You're the most qualified here to drive around my family, and today, you'll have to do just that. I'm sorry for pressuring you like this but my daughters have an appointment and it really cannot be missed. "

There was no getting out of this. He had to bite the bullet. Washington driving, especially if it was beyond the beltway, was notorious for being terrible. But it was an order, and he really wasn't going to argue with a man who could have his pick of the lot. There were many law students who would kill for this job. Tom swallowed his pride."Alright."

* * *

Tom went to the garage where the car was parked. A BMW, Mr. Crawley said it was.

He clicked the key. The lights went on.

Before Tom was the most magnificent custom car he had ever seen. If he scratched it, Tom gulped, death was sure to follow.

* * *

"The third left. The house is yellow." Cora pretty good with directions. She was largely helped with the layout of the city, which was essentially a grid, but back in the neighborhoods, it got a bit turned around.

"I don't really care if we go or not, mom. You know I would rather become a plumber than go to a debutante ball." Sybil was enraged at the idea of lining up with a bunch of girls and being presented like she was some prize a guy had to be smooth enough to win. It was disgusting and chauvinistic and she wanted no part in it. If it weren't for her dear old grannie, she would have never agreed to it. Grandma was forceful and insistent, and however mortifying she could be, Sybil did not want to let her down. Though if she could get her mother to let her skip, she absolutely would.

"Oh shush, you know you'll have to. It's tradition."

"Is Mary coming? We all have to get fitted, right?"

"Well, Mary's chest hasn't gotten any larger since second grade," mumbled Edith. "I can't imagine why she would need to come."

"Edith!" Cora blanched at her daughter. "Be kind!" Edith just huffed in response. Sybil stifled a laugh. Her mother gave a look of daggers at her middle daughter and turned her gaze away, to focus on giving directions. "You're in Robert's car, right? I think I see you coming up the way. Our number is 0924."

"I can't believe we couldn't just take a taxi." Edith glared over at Sybil. "We'd better hurry over, traffic should be reaching rush hour now."

Sybil shrugged. "If we miss it, we miss it."

The car pulled in.

Cora sighed with relief, something she picked up from her husband. "Girls, let's go."

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	3. I Will Wait

Tom exited the car, opening the door gently, unreasonably expecting it to break into a million pieces, resulting in him having to head up back to Boston. It wasn't the worst option, but he would much prefer job security with something mildly interesting than uncertainty and possibly working in a garage up North again. He was ready for this work, and was fully prepared to prove himself. He was certainly not ready for chauffeuring around his boss's family. He wasn't too out of practice- he had only stopped after he left grad school when he had gotten his last job with the Land Court , which was only two years ago, and during that time he still frequently visited the garage- but though he was good at it, he was never too worried if the car got a scratch. Tom had no idea where he was going around the city, having only moved into a less than desirable Anacostia apartment last week. He hardly knew how to find a metro stop, let alone navigate the streets. The T, at least in the area he lived in, was mostly above ground. It was rather enjoyable, watching the pedestrians walk around, some with dogs and coffee, some with briefcases and stern looks, or like him, with the newspaper in hand. The D.C. metro was dark and stuffy and felt an awful lot like a prison to him. It was a beautiful city with few smiles, as far as he could see. Leaving the door open behind him, he stood before the three ladies. "Afternoon, all."

Mrs. Crawley offered a warm smile as she went to the car, and took his hand gently between her two. "I apologize for this, I have been feeling so awful lately and I cannot stand how rude some drivers are in this city. Is this quite alright?"

He immediately relaxed, offering a smile in return. "Of course, ma'am." Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. "I'm afraid I don't know how to walk across a street here properly, and will need direction the entire way."

"I expected so. Don't worry, it's not a problem." Mrs. Crawley released his hand, and looked behind her daughters, who were standing uncomfortably off to the side. "Come on then, we don't have all day."

Edith looked down at her sister, thankful for the height advantage. Really, Edith was thankful for any advantage over her sisters. "You sit in the middle, I want the window."

Sybil bit her lip and obliged, lining up behind her mother while she tried smalltalk. "So where are you from again?"

"Mom," Edith started tersely. "Aren't you the one who was insisting we leave right now?"

"Oh, yes."

Tom opened the door, giving a nod and an awkward smile to Cora, and her daughters as they entered. "Sorry about this."

"No, no, no," Cora waved her hand at the comment as if it would leave her with shooing. "It was an inconvenient time for everyone."

Tom adjusted his mirror, still trying to get used to the thing. His legs wouldn't sit right, and the seat, however high quality, was too plush and dare he say cushy for him. Any minute, he felt as though he would be consumed by it. It was all wrong. For him, at least. When the mirror fell to the right spot, the middle seat partially obstructed his view. A pair of glistening blue eyes, nearly shrouded from a mess of dark hair, took up the leftmost part of the mirror. Tom was certainly not in the place to ask her to move, so he let it be. "So, where to?"

* * *

When they were well enough on their way, though stuck in crawling traffic, Cora piped up. "So, where are you from, again?"

"Boston, ma'am. Or just outside of it, near the cape. Smaller town called Quincy."

"Do you have a house on the water?" She smiled, though aware he couldn't see her. "My family would vacation there in the summers. The rockier shores were my favorite."

Tom felt a little twinge of homesickness. "No, but the shoreline is only a few blocks away. The water can get awful blue. It can freeze out a few feet in winter."

He glanced up at the rearview mirror. The dark blue-grey rocks underneath the water, the icicles that formed off the gutters, the water that lapped his feet, carrying green algae and seafoam, he could see it. She just stared back.

"That sounds lovely." A pause. "What is your name, again?"

"Tom, ma'am. Tom Branson."

"Charmed."

"Pleasure's mine."

"Sybil," Edith started, "do you have any idea what you want your dress to look like?"

"Hmm?" Sybil turned away from the rearview mirror, which she had been watching intently. She hadn't really gotten a good look at the driver yet, and was waiting for him to crane his neck, or something. It felt weird, being driven around by some new guy at her father's office. Why did her father pick him to go? He probably had a learning curve he was working to overcome, and probably should have been the one to stay back. During her volunteer hours at the new Walter Reed Hospital and the summer training program she was doing at the university, they sent out the ones who knew enough what they were doing out to get coffee, or whatever else. The newbies, like her, were watched. Since her father could really care less about what their dresses looked like as long as they were perfect in every way and attracted the attention of some rich twenty something, it was hardly more important to him than a coffee run, anyway. "I don't really have much of an idea, no."

"Do you remember mine at all?" Edith stared out the window at the greying sky. No longer a debutante Edith felt undervalued, like an old piece of pottery in a workshop that hadn't been sold yet. Her pattern wasn't as ostentatious as the others, and she had sat on the shelf for years, occasionally being marked down, but no takers. She felt some solace that Mary hadn't gotten married yet, though her prospects were better. As much as she hated to admit it, Sybil was the one that she expected to marry the quickest. Though Mary was the one who was going to inherit everything, and certainly beautiful, Edith held a different resentment for Sybil. Sybil was the one she complained to when Mary was bothering her, and she was sure Mary did the same. Sybil was the peacemaker. She was the youngest, and most adored – by everyone. She had been the one to get her mother's eyes. Both herself and Mary had gotten her grandfather's dark ones, which were not all bad, but paired with his small lips made them both less alluring. Sybil had never been on a date, and it was her first year to be properly presented. Her baby sister, she was sure, would meet someone that fit her standards, and the two would be happy, maybe move to New York, and have children. All while Edith sat on the shelf.

"I don't, sorry. I didn't get to drive over with you, remember? I was on a field trip."

"Right. Well, choose a good shade. White makes everyone look bland."

Sybil smiled softly, and touched her sister's shoulder. "You don't look bland in anything."

Edith just looked out the window.

* * *

Tom had never been good with small groups. If he contributed too little, he felt like a hermit. Too much, needy. Ultimately, he decided the best tactic for a car full of women was to be silent. Listening to Edith's drama about how her debutante ball had gone(awfully, it sounded) and Cora's reassurance of Sybil it would go much better for her("I'm sure nothing will catch on fire this time") was a bit boring. Sybil, herself, was uncharacteristically quiet. Maybe it was the rain. She had little interest in men, but it didn't sit well with her to talk openly about it with one present, silent as he was. He might be reporting back to her father, for one thing.

"It's this one, on the left." Mrs. Crawley gestured to the small brick boutique on F Street. Tom pulled into a tight but fortunately available parking space. It had begun to rain gently. Tom had the foresight to bring an umbrella, and held it over the right side passenger door as Edith exited, and ran inside. Mrs. Crawley braved it, running from the street side, hopping to avoid puddles. Sybil pulled herself out, grabbing the door as she went out, accidentally brushing Tom's hand. She looked up at him.

He wasn't considerably taller than her, though maybe a good head. His hand was rough. His eyes were a deep blue green, which would have complimented his hair well, if it wasn't dripping from the rain that was falling on him as he held the umbrella over her. It caught in his eyelashes, rolled down his cheeks, his nose, his lips. She still hadn't moved her hand. A smile flickered across her face, only to quickly be stifled by her upper lip that set her mouth into place. It didn't prevail, and the smile returned.

He smiled back.

"Sybil! Come on!"

"Coming!" Sybil tore her eyes away and went to run inside, but felt a hand grip her elbow glance shifted back up.

"Please tell your mother I'll be waiting out here."

Sybil nodded, and ran the few feet to the store, casting a sidelong glance back at Tom when she was under the outside rain cover. He hadn't moved the umbrella from where it was.

Back turned, Sybil gave an unstifled smile.

* * *

Tom was sanguine, somewhat from his unseasonal wool jacket in summer. He closed the back door and the umbrella, and nestled back into the front seat. The car had seat warmers. Good god.

His phone rung in his pocket. "Hello?"

"Ah, Branspn. Sorry about the whole driving thing."

"It's really no problem, Mr. Crawley."

"Well, I assume everyone's safe and on time?"

"Of course."

"Great. Drop my family and the car over by the office after. It's my ride home, you know."

"Right then, see you soon."

"Thank you, Branson."

Tom hung up and rubbed his wet temples. He suddenly had a headache. It felt like brain freeze.

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	4. Chasing Cars

Tom laid in his bed (more of a cot, actually), lost in thought.

He missed his home in Quincy, he really did, but there was nobody in particular he missed. Sure, he loved his mother and father and brother, but not anyone particularly more than anyone else. He missed knowing his way around, knowing all the best shops, and giving directions to lost tourists. And now he was a tourist, and he was invariably lost. He never liked being told what to do, and asking for instruction was even worse.

He had never liked being a chauffeur much. As a chauffeur, he was just an overrated cab driver. While it was important to get intoxicated, rich fourty year olds home safely and make a teenager's prom memorable, he really didn't make a contribution to the world, and he really wanted to. He wanted to run for office someday, to help make the laws he fumbled through every afternoon, rereading edited briefs and suggesting how to manipulate laws that were a little vague, somewhat applicable, and open to interpretation. And he hated himself for it.

He had never mentioned his political activism to anyone since arriving in D.C., ironically. Only a few friends in Boston even knew about the summer he spent canvassing for Bernie Sanders up in Vermont. Mr. Crawley, a successful businessman with an inherited dynasty was not likely to accept his kind roaming about his office, editing his papers, driving his wife and daughters.

What was the name of that one? It started with an S. The other sister had said it. Sarah? Sadie? Sophie?

He tucked his hands under his head and chewed at the inside of his cheek.

Her eyes.

They were piercing, but not judgmental. It was like he was being interrogated without a question being asked. He felt sweat start to form on his brow. He hadn't yet installed air conditioning into his apartment.

Eyes, of course, couldn't listen, he reasoned. They processed and analyzed. They just understood.

His headache returned. Asprin hadn't worked last time, and he doubted it would this time either.

He rubbed his temples and tried to fall asleep.

* * *

Yelling. A sigh. The sound of a phone hitting the receiver.

"Branson, can I see you in my office?"

Not again.

He entered, and the door was closed behind him. Tom eyed Mr. Crawley's vacant chair. It looked just like the car seat he found so damn uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid I have another trip for you."

"Of course, Mr. Crawley."

"Do you remember where you drove last time? The dress shop?"

"I do."

"Well, my daughter has another fitting, and her mother is occupied, and I hate it when she goes out alone. Can you pick her up at the house?"

"I still don't have a car, sir."

"Take mine."

"Are you sure? The files-"

"I'll have Thomas actually do some work around here. She's already late, so I'd appreciate it if you got on with it." Mr. Crawley's expression softened a bit. "And drive safely. The roads are hell by the beltway."

* * *

Gwen was crouched on the steps, carefully dusting off the balusters.

"So, how are essays coming?" Sybil chirped, seated a few stairs above her, elbows on her knees and chin pressed into her palm. "Do you need a peer editor?"

"I told you I'm not applying."

"And why not?"

Gwen rolled her eyes. "I've told you a million times."

"I still don't see why you won't do it."

"I'm busy."

"But you want to-"

"Of course I want to, but it's not that simple."

"You're not happy here."

Her rag slipped out of her hand, and fell down to the entryway. "Shit!"

Sybil collapsed in hysterics.

Gwen felt her cheeks color, and tossed her can of pledge at the other girl. "Don't laugh!"

"It-it's just that-" Sybil wiped her eyes with the corners of her bulky sweater, smearing her dark eyeliner. "A week ago you wouldn't- wouldn't even call me by my first name, and now you're swearing."

Gwen hot out a rush of air from the corner of her mouth, shooting a loose strand of hair back with it. "Well," the corner twitched upward. "Fuck you, then."

Sybil snorted, loudly, and covered her growing smirk. "I'm sure that will show up on the SATs."

Gwen's smile faded. "You're not letting this go, are you?"

"Nope."

Just then, her father's car pulled in.

"I certainly hope you enjoy dressing up for your misogyny fest."

"Fuck you too, Gwen." Sybil smirked at her friend, giving a light push, before making her way downstairs.

* * *

He was about halfway over before he realized he wasn't sure who he was picking up.

He couldn't help but remember how sad they all looked last time. Well, maybe sad was the wrong word. Resentful, maybe? It was evident that all of them would rather have been spending time elsewhere. As the engine hummed, Tom pinched the end of his nose. His headache hadn't calmed down yet.

The door pulled open, and the car made a little buzzing noise.

"Sorry for the wait." Her voice was throaty, a hint of her laughs from Gwen seeping through, puncturing and stressing certain syllables. "I got a bit distracted."

Tom turned around in his chair. A small smile was on her face, eyelashes fluttering as she pulled herself in. She hadn't had makeup on last time, and the dark smudges around her eyes only intensified their hue. It matched the rest of her- Sybil liked darker colors. Her mother was out having coffee with some of her friends, and hadn't been able to object to her attire. Her jean shirt was too large, and had the appearance of a dress, almost covering her shorts. Her leggings underneath were intentionally slashed, threads hanging off of them. Some of the threads had gotten caught in the shoelaces of her Dr. Martens. It was topped off with a no doubt vintage leather jacket and a beanie that all but covered her dark hair. She didn't look like the type to be fitted for a ballgown.

"It's no problem, um-"

"Sybil." She extended her hand, fingertips coated in chipped black nail polish. "Sorry, I don't remember yours, either."

He took her hand in his own. "I'm Mr. Branson."

Sybil looked at him, eyebrow raised, expectantly. She hadn't let go of his hand.

"... But I suppose you can call me Tom."

"Tom, then." She released him, settling back into her seat, the same place she was last time. Right in the middle of his view.

Within a moment, they were off.

* * *

"You sure you wouldn't like air conditioning?"

"Hmm?" Sybil looked up, her multiple pairs of earrings clanging together.

Connecticut Avenue had had a car accident, and the two had been stuck in traffic for ten minutes.

"No," She twirled her hair as she looked out the window. "Air pollution."

He smiled. "You'd think idling here would cause enough."

"Dad says he'll disown me if I buy a smart car."

"Don't they have Zipcars around here?"

Sybil raised an eyebrow. "A what?"

"Y'know. A Zipcar." They weren't driving, so he was okay with gesticulating. "The smart cars you can rent to drive around in?"

"Oh. I can't drive."

"Why not?"

"Dad doesn't like us to drive." She pursed her lips. "Are you supposed to be reporting back everything I say?"

"No."

Sybil hit the door frame with all her might, making the car shake momentarily. "It is absolute BULLSHIT. He thinks raising a respectable lady is the same thing as raising a pet. We can't go anywhere, do anything, see anyone on our own. Everything is so prearranged for us, like we're stuck behind a picture frame. Seen, only when he wants us seen, and never heard. He wants us versed in poetry and prose, but we can't use it or interpret it how we really view it. we just work to please him, or to please Granny. I can't fucking wait to get out of here."

Tom shook his head, chuckling under his breath.

"I suppose you agree with him, then?" Sybil couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice. Nobody ever agreed with her. Not mom, not Mary, not Edith, and not even Gwen.

"Quite contrary. I just wasn't expecting that."

"Hmm?"

He craned his neck back to face her, putting his hand on the back of the other seat. "I just wasn't expecting it from a teenager who has everything."

"Well, not everything." Her eyes sparkled a bit.

A loud honk broke their gaze. Traffic had crawled all of two feet ahead, and the cab behind him was already impatient.

Tom sighed. This city.

* * *

"You're do passionate about gender roles, it sounds like you have political inclinations."

Sybil had begun to read. Their entire trip should have lasted 20 minutes, tops, but here they were, 20 minutes in traffic, still.

"I suppose I do. They're a bit unconventional." Her book shut, the body of the paperback wobbling a bit under the force.

"Well, I'm quite political. Try me."

"I'm not exactly conservative..." Sybil hesitated.

"I'm a socialist."

Sybil cleared her throat. "R-Really?" She hardly expected an outright confession of his leanings, especially ones so radical.

"Tell me about unconventional."

She laughed, and leaned her head against the back seat. "So I guess there's no hard feelings that I'm unabashedly liberal?"

"None at all."

"It seems unlikely, a socialist chauffeur."

"I'm not a chauffeur, I'm a paralegal. This is just a momentary change of occupation. And I won't always be driving you around."

If he had looked, he would have noticed the change in her demeanor. She hadn't worn makeup other than eyeliner, though her face and lips had become very red. She smiled down at her knees. Her shirt had shifted off to one shoulder. She didn't fix it.

* * *

Sybil came out of the store half an hour after she had gone in, looking gleeful.

"Someone's happy." He smiled at her in the mirror. "Pleased with your dress?"

"It's coming along. I won't be wearing it until the ball, which is a ways away, but it's getting there. Did you tell dad why we took so long?"

"Yes, I called while you were inside. He didn't seem to mind, though I'll be taking some paperwork home tonight."

"From your real job?"

"From my real job."

Sybil had a contented smile the entire way back.

* * *

"It was nice meeting you, Tom" Sybil said, exiting the car. It was nearly five, and Tom still had to return the car. Their whole trip had taken around two hours.

"Likewise. Have a good evening, Miss Sybil."

"Sybil."

"Sybil, then."

As she walked away, Sybil felt herself sigh. Prep schools didn't necessarily come with proper gentlemen. Though everyone there was certainly wealthy, many of the boys had a seedy element about them. Most she had encountered threw parties with Dom Perignon in abandoned buildings and had ecstasy dealers on speed dial. While the compliments she often got were flattering, they most likely had other things in mind than dancing the Foxtrot. She hadn't attended a dance since middle school, despite the number of invitations that were extended to her, despite the catcalls she received in the halls, despite the leering. Not all were bad, of course- but she hadn't been allowed, nor wanted, to go on dates. And besides, no one really held her politics or enjoyed fine literature. Most would get into Ivy's on privilege and donations alone. Against her parents wishes, she had decided she would go to Boston University, instead of Dartmouth or Yale or Brown. Everyone in the family had always gone to Georgetown. She just didn't like the closeness.

She would meet someone eventually. Maybe at the debutante ball?

Sybil felt a smile edge across her face. One thing was for sure, she could get used to the Massachusetts accent.

_Please review! I can't be driven to write without feedback!_


	5. Blue Jeans

It was a quiet evening at the Crawley's. More than a month had passed since her last dress fitting and was really dreading the next one. She hated to be poked and prodded and reminded that she was little more than a marriageable hunk of meat in her family.

"Go on, guess!"

Gwen rattled Sybil out of her cloudy mind. She was on break, and the two were sprawled on Sybil's bed, staring at the ceiling, at the old glow-in-the-dark stars that had lost most of their luminescence 10 years ago. Gwen had been rather excited to tell Sybil of her weekend, and was insisting that Sybil guess how she had spent it. Why did people insist on others actually guessing? "Guess" was pretty much a manner of expression. Usually they told you outright, or maybe after a guess or two. They had been at it for ten minutes.

"Finally got that chocolate at Balducci's?"

"No."

"Um..." Sybil twisted her brows together, wrinkling her nose. "You... went on a date in Rock Creek park?"

"You know I don't date."

"You're impossible, Gwen."

Gwen reached behind her and tightened her long red ponytail, which hung far down her back. "You're no fun."

Sybil certainly thought of herself as fun, but wasn't going to argue.

"I took the SATs."

Sybil launched herself into her friend, the two entangling each other in a gleeful hug. Sybil's incessant badgering had paid off. No, that did not give nearly enough credit to Gwen. Gwen had started to get confidence.

"So, anywhere in mind?"

* * *

"How is your new place?"

Tom gave a half hearted laugh.

His brother had called. Kieran didn't make his presence known very frequently, but he had been looking at places to open a second garage and there was a spot in Southeast Washington that he was going to take a look at later in the week. Tom held his cell phone to his ear with this shoulder, trying to maneuver doing the dishes along with talking. The volume on his phone had been damaged for a few years, and he had never bothered to fix it.

"To be honest, I'm starting to like it. It's not glamorous, but it's not bad." Tom rubbed the rough side of the sponge into a cracked ceramic plate he had bought from Ikea a few year ago in college, when paper plates were getting too expensive. Soapy water rolled down his forearms, trapping little bubbles under the thicker strands of hair. The water pressure was never even and the water itself never a consistent temperature, but it didn't really bother him unless he was in the shower. His roof leaked, his neighbors were loud, his windows never closed. But he got by. His job payed pretty well, though he was payed only a fraction of what he reasonably should have been paid. He was classified as an intern, though he had been working for four months at the firm and had been working essentially as a paralegal, though with much more work. Tom drove with Mr. Crawley to the courthouse every morning, making sure everything was prepped, doing research, sat in the courtroom and looked for any reason to claim a mistrial if it wasn't going their way. He filed and drove and reviewed and took plenty of work home. The longest he had gone without eating was a little over a day. Tom was a horrible hoarder of donuts whenever Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Crawley's staff coordinator, brought them in. "There haven't been many robberies lately, thank god. I'd hate to be the poor guy to rob me. He'd probably get away with three moth balls and a paperclip from my wallet."

"I'm sure the attention from the ladies has eased the pain."

Kieran had been a lifelong bachelor, a football stud in high school. Tom had been the artsy younger brother. Kieran had always insisted that the only reason girls would be around him was to be closer to Tom. His theory was not completely unfounded- it was generally agreed upon that Tom had gotten the looks. However, he was not particularly liked. He was known for little more than his relationship to his brother, his way with a motor, his love of Yeats and his politics. Often, the only positive thing people saw was his car skills. Kieran, while talented on the football field, liked to start fights too frequently, and more often than  
not, it was Tom who had to pay for it.

"No, actually. I haven't been on a date since junior year."

"You know that's not what I meant."

Tom almost dropped his phone. "You know I don't do that, Kieran."

"You'd be less stressed if you did."

He folded. He would not win the conversation.

"So where, exactly, were you looking again for that garage?"

* * *

"I can't believe we're doing this."

"I can't believe you're letting me do this."

When they had strolled into the Zipcar registrar, they were a little hesitant, and unsure if their plan would work. They had already stolen the card off Anna- Gwen's roomate-'s desk. They couldn't sink much lower in their little world, and they enjoyed the rush they received. Their intentions were noble- to get Gwen to an application interview at UMD. They had given themselves plenty of time to get there, unsure if their plan would work.

The hall was empty but for the two girls and a balding receptionist, whom they approached.

"I need 12 hours."

The man, who's name tag read "Benny," swiped the card and tapped on an aging keyboard. "I'll need your license to confirm."

Gwen handed him a fake one.

"The card is for an Anna Bates."

"Well, the card is my cousin's," She began to explain as he frowned at the mismatched last name.

"I'm afraid you'll just have to open a new account."

The two tried their best to look crestfallen. Sybil looked up at Anna. "But the recital!"

Benny glanced at Sybil. "What recital?"

"She's been practicing for years," Gwen started, letting out a sigh. "And Uncle Greg and Aunt Jane won't even be there."

"My parents," Sybil explained, "Have had a sudden business trip, and won't be able to see me dance."

"Where?" Benny leaned forward, adjusting the spectacles that sat on his nose and appeared far too small for his face.

"Baltimore. Have you heard of the France-Merrick Preforming Arts Center?" Sybil dug out a pair of pointe shoes from her bag, and dangled them from the ribbons. "See?"

"That will be fifty dollars." The girls smiled. "Plus a twenty five dollar kindness fee."

* * *

Gwen hadn't driven a car in two years. The worst they had expected was a few angry pedestrians, angrier fellow commuters, and getting lost a few times thanks to Apple Maps.

They hadn't expected the car to begin smoking.

"FUCK."

Sybil kicked the car, and sank to her knees. She was going to cry. Good god, she was an idiot. She couldn't tell either of her sisters. It would only encourage them to keep her in the house. The three of them and house staff were the only one's in the house this week- Her father and mother were taking their yearly vacation to their villa in Bora Bora.

Gwen sat next to her. "What now?"

She wouldn't. She couldn't. It was too much to ask. It was 3 pm on a Sunday. He wouldn't be around. How would he get there? The car was halfway between Baltimore and Washington. He wouldn't even come if she asked.

"Who are you calling?" Gwen twisted her worried look into a face of confusion. "Triple A? I don't have insurance, and neither do you."

"I'm calling a friend."

* * *

Tom, of course, had not been expecting a call. He was sitting on his bed, engaging in his nightly indulgence of reading the paper. He only had the money to get two- The Washington Post and the New York Times, but then again, Huffington Post was free, and he enjoyed that quite a bit as well. But there was something about feeling the thin, rough texture of the paper between his fingers that he loved. His fingertips had to be black with ink before he was satisfied.

His phone, on his half-hardheartedly assembled desk, buzzed. Tom didn't recognize the number. It was unbelievable he even had it on. The only people who called him nowadays were his mother, his brother and his boss.

"Hello?"

"Tom?"

* * *

He arrived half an hour later, with a backpack full of tools and a jug of water. He hadn't slept last night- his neighbors were having a fight, and the police ended up being called, and he had to give a witness statement. It showed under his eyes. He hadn't taken a shower nor shaved this morning, opting instead for sleeping in. The only thing he changed about his attire before getting a cab over was his pants- he added them. Even they weren't much of an improvement. He had probably owned the ripped and stained jeans since 2002. Tom still wore the thinning old t-shirt he had worn to bed- plain but for three buttons at the top. Still, when he exited the taxi he couldn't help but smile at the two teens in front of them, both visibly distraught. The car had stopped smoking by now, and looked relatively normal, though the hood was popped.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Um.." Sybil really didn't know what to do. "The car..."

Tom shifted the backpack off of his shoulder and moved towards the car, opening the hood. "Did it make any sounds? Did you see the color of what was coming out?"

"Um..." Sybil looked at Gwen, who only shrugged in reply. "No."

Tom sighed. "Alright."

"Thanks for coming!" Blurted Gwen, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "I was touring college, and..."

"It's really alright." One arm occupied holding up the hood, he craned his neck over his shoulder. "Everyone gets car trouble eventually, right? I wasn't doing anything else, anyway." His eyes were a little watery, and sleep still clung to him. He looked raw, coarse, and extremely masculine, and though he wasn't in the mood for conversation, still a gentleman. Gwen gripped Sybil's arm, and she glanced up at the taller girl. Gwen mouthed "HOT", and with eyebrows raised, shifted her gaze at Tom, and back to Sybil. "Where did you find HIM?"

"Shut up," she replied, ending their silent conversation.

To be honest, Sybil couldn't blame her. From years of being washed and worn, his pants fit him perfectly. They were a little tight in all the right places.

"What was his name again?"

Sybil sucked in air as his shirt rode up on his back, just enough taut skin to redden her nose. "Tom," she whispered, breaking the silence.

"What?" Tom straightened up, holding a cap. "You're out of coolant, is all." He smiled, and held out the water jug. "And that's what this is for. It will get you back, but it's not a substitute." He turned back around, inspecting the temperature gauge, and pouring the cool liquid down the tube. "I'm going to let it sit for a few minutes until it cools enough to drive. I'll take this back, you two take the cab." He crushed the plastic bottle, shoving it into his backpack. "I suppose you shouldn't take my transportation recommendations anymore."

Sybil bit back a smile.

Tom smiled apologetically at Gwen. "I don't look my best, I apologize." He extended a hand. "Tom."

Gwen shook it, with a broad smile. "Gwen."

"Pleasure."

"Likewise."

"Well," Sybil interrupted, "I have to pay you back, for the cab."

"Well, I'll need the card for this thing."

"Shit!" Gwen gasped. "How are we going to get it back to Anna, then? She gets back Tuesday."

"You didn't steal it, did you?"

Sybil winced.

"Oh my God."

"Well, I can't drive, and Gwen doesn't have insurance! Are you going to crush her dreams?"

Gwen scowled. "Thanks. I'm the scapegoat."

"Well, of course I was a conspirator, but-"

Tom sighed, and shook his head. "Sybil-"

"GWEN, you're the one who took it!"

"It wasn't MY idea!"

"Alright, everyone calm down." Tom sighed. It was four, and it was still too early for this. "Your plan would have worked fantastically, both of you, had the car not broken down. Take some solace in that. It of course wasn't the BEST way to do it, but.." He pressed on his temples. Headaches.

Sybil huffed, and scuffed the ground. "I'll go with Tom and give you the card Monday, okay?"

Gwen nodded. "Good trip?"

Sybil smiled. "Good trip." After an additional lending of $100 to ensure Gwen would get back home and a hug shared, Gwen was off.

Once alone, Tom started to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"I'd hate to be your father."

* * *

"So where is she planning on applying?

The drive wouldn't be long, as their car had stopped halfway back from College Park. Too bad.

"Maryland schools. Gwen lives in Prince George's, so she'd get in-state tuition."

"Well, good for her. I'd be happy to drive the both of you to tours, if I had a car."

"The carless mechanic?"

"There's been greater ironies in life. And I'm not a mechanic. Not currently, anyway."

"Right. Sorry."

Sybil had sat in the front this time. The back just seemed wrong.

"Have you decided where you're going?"

"Boston University." Sybil became intently interested in her cuticles. She hadn't looked at him the entire trip. "Pre-Med."

"I'd expect law from a Crawley."

Sybil shot him a glaring look. "All Crawleys are not my father."

"Point taken." He remembered the many meetings between Mr. Crawley and a Matthew Crawley, who was Mr. Crawley's nephew, or something, behind closed doors. He was apparently another lawyer, albeit from out of town. New York, was it? In hushed voices the two discussed inheritance law. Tom himself had reviewed the Crawley family's own inheritance law far too many times than he would have liked to.

"I've spent most of my time after school between Walter Reed and John's Hopkins." Sybil felt a small grin thinking about it. "I really love it."

"Do what you love, right?" Tom stopped a few blocks from the house, as Sybil had requested. "Good luck with your sisters."

Sybil only laughed.

* * *

He reached the stoplight before the drop off area when he realized he was completely out of gas.

Tom dragged a hand down his face.

"Why me?"

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_Extra long chapter, and the next one is essentially a drabble so it's being posted, too.  
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	6. Up All Night

He was driving her for the third time that week. This was the second time that she had sat in the front with him. Tom wasn't going to address her increasing flirtatiousness- he figured if he ignored her advances, they would go away. He didn't want to lose his job and hurt her reputation.

Her weapon of choice had been light touches- pushing him when she laughed, laying her head on his shoulder, and the like. With every brush of her fingers, he clenched the wheel tighter.

"I wonder if we could make a quick stop?" Sybil had whispered in his ear, lips skimming the tender flesh of his jawline. He swallowed.

"Where to?"

The next five minutes were a blur.

He remembered her requesting he pull into a parking garage, but he didn't recall where he had placed his ticket, what street they were on, anything. She was in his lap, tugging at his tie, blue eyes transfixed on his own, their foreheads pressed together. Her legs had found the room around his seat to settle, her hips wide and free and unguarded across his center. The door locked with a click.

"Sybil, no." His hands were at her hips, pushing her back. They didn't move far, blocked by the steering wheel. "We can't."

He could think of a million reasons why. He was six years older. She had barely left high school. They were in a parking garage. They were in her father's car. They were in his boss's car. He didn't have protection. She was naïve. He would ruin her. He could be fired. She could be disowned. They could be fined for public indecency.

She kissed him, and his mind went blank.

Tom's hands, still on her hips, dragged them forward again, pressing her against his body. She responded immediately, letting out a soft moan. If there was any going back, for him, any will he could have possibly mustered was obliterated. The red, soft parted lips were violently interrupted by his tongue. Sybil had little experience with kissing, and gasped at the intrusion, tugging at his suit which had quickly become too hot. She pulled down the thick fabric by the lapels, slipping it past his back with the intention of freeing him, momentarily forcing his hands off of her hips. He recovered quickly, and tugged the light summer dress his accomplice over her head, ridding her of it.

He had admired her body for the few times they had met- it was clear she was shapely, despite her love of thick clothes. What Tom hadn't expected was how well his hands fit to her waist, her perfect hour glass figure, her strong thighs that held fast to his center. He knew he was ogling. Sybil smirked as she felt him grow firm underneath her, his hands starting to shake as they traced up and down her back, sweat beading on his hairline.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she kissed him again, arcing her chest farther into him, hips sliding back. "That's not really fair, now is it?" Sybil bit his bottom lip, nearly drawing blood. "I'm half naked, and you're still in your tie."

Frantically, he began unbuttoning his shirt, feeling the desperation as Sybil kissed his neck, her small, well-manicured hands jerking back his red hair. If she was thinking properly, she may have felt guilt at the lipstick smudges that she made on his shirt as his collar rubbed against her markings, the fabric of his neck slowly suffocating him with every heavy breath he took. The tie came second, and he didn't feel the need to move it away as it fell into his lap, previously occupied hands moving up Sybil's back, pulling and unhooking the offending lace bra that prevented her top half from being free.

In this moment, he was not patient. The lacy assembly still hung over her arms when he went to touch her. Sybil was already hard- her nails dug into his neck when his thumb grazed over her. She pressed himself hard against him, letting out a raspy moan, much louder than she had before. "Oh god, Tom-"

If he had let himself, he could have been released at that moment, at the sound of her begging for him, saying his name. The car had become hot and foggy, breathing becoming heavier as their touches became more deliberate. He ran his thumb across her nipple a second time, letting his fingernail scrape against her. Her voice broke this time- she bit down on his neck to try to control herself. She began to undo his belt, Tom's eyes becoming wide as his pants were moved out of the way.

"A-Are you sure?" His nervousness came back, goosebumps forming across his exposed flesh. "Here?"

Sybil only kissed him in reply, her hands lowering once more to push back his final layer.

The alarm shattered Tom's dream.

It took him a moment to adjust, as the throbbing began behind his eyes signaling his migraine's reappearance.

Tom hissed at the sunlight, at the honking cars, at the sound of the alarm, the hardness of the bed, and his frustrated state.

"_Fuck_."

Reluctantly, he turned off his alarm, and left his wrinkled, messy bed to take a cold shower. That worked last time.

_Reviewwwwww please!_


	7. Sunset

Sybil was endlessly distracted.

She certainly didn't slack- no, she wasn't that far gone. But she couldn't help it when her friends in the hospital kept talking about their relationships and fake relationships with celebrities.

Few of them had had much sleep. Sybil hair was fixed with a scrunchie and a few bobby pins. She undoubtedly looked a mess, wearing scrubs that had been bleached countless times, hideous beyond any sort of redemption. It was easy to spot those who had been there less than a year- if makeup beyond a smudge of gloss was on, they were newbies. No amount of makeup could hide the congealed blood and vomit that would spatter the fronts of shirts, and, if one was particularly unlucky, hair. She sipped at her cheap black coffee in the cafeteria. It was pre-ground and tasted like tar. She loved summer. Between her shifts as a volunteer at the hospital and her summer pre-med classes, she had been walking on air. It did not mean she was not exhausted for all of it, but she adored it all the same.

"God, did you see the promotional photoshoot for the Avengers movie? Oh my gooooooood!" Gemma pulled up the picture on her phone, showing it off. "For the love of all that is holy, Chris Evans should not exist. It is literally impossible for that sort of perfection to be living. I'm convinced he is CGI. Always."

Liz rolled her eyes. "Yeah, he's great, but Joseph Gordon Levitt destroys your argument, sorry."

Sybil sipped at her coffee, a silent smirk to herself. She was sure she had not seen anyone work a pair of jeans that well, ever. And it wasn't for lack of experience. She had seen the Abercrombie and Fitch ads, the GQ spreads, the movies with heartthrobs, the music videos with other heartthrobs. No, his muscles did not protrude enough away from his body to push out bulging, cartoony veins, but she never saw the appeal in that, anyway, nor was not tall enough to rest his elbow on her head. But god, was he handsome. As lame as it sounded, she didn't want an action figure, she wanted a man.

"Sybil? Sybil?"

"Hmmm?" She had bit a hole in the Styrofoam cup, coffee dribbling down her hands and sleeve. "Oops."

"What's been wrong with you, lately?"

She set the cup down, raising up from the chair to get napkins. "Nothing."

* * *

With Mr. Crawley out of the office for the week, Tom and the rest of the office had gone into overdrive. Most of the duties went directly to Bates, who was meeting with clients as Mr. Crawley's representative for procedural matters. Tom was picking up the scraps of Bates's work, editing documents, getting scheduling information from Anna, Mr. Crawley's secretary, and downing every coffee Daisy so kindly left at his desk. Some of Strallan's office in the adjoining building had even begun to chip in- they were a partnership, after all.

He had delt with Matthew for most of the day- discussing transfers of account information between he and Mr. Crawley, how he would be managing the exchanged money, etc. Tom was not shocked to hear of the exorbitant sums that were being traded. Matthew, though he was successful, had not been rich. He had been far more surprised than Tom, though it was likely because he would be the one receiving all the money. Well, when Mr. Crawley died, at least. They got along quite well, actually. Matthew was from New York, and bonded as outsiders in the strange world of D.C. Unlike Tom, Matthew's mother had moved with him. She was a kind woman, Matthew explained, but a little too doting for his tastes and her own happiness. Tom couldn't help but mention Madam Crawley, who visited far too frequently to the office to chide her son. As disparate as their family had become, Tom surmised, he was sure Mr. Crawley and Matthew had managed to get along with this and this alone. Matthew's quasi relationship with Mary was rocky, but his mother had found admiration in Sybil. His mother, Isobel, had been a nurse in her time, and had volunteered frequently in New York. She had gone on a few shifts with Sybil. All in all, their discussion of business had ended up being rather limited during the three hours of their meeting. To Tom, poor lonely Tom, their small talk had been a small light in the tunnel for salvaging his otherwise awful day, which proceeded to go horrifically slow.

He really should have gone to bed afterword. His headaches were acting up, he was tired and shaky from caffeine. But he had to go. He hadn't had a single minute of free time in months- he hadn't been able to go to a concert, see a movie, a play, and slowly he had less and less time to enjoy his newspapers. So goddamnit, he was going to go to the rally, if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

Since her parents were out, she had been able to take the bus in the first time in ages.

She didn't really miss the experience of the bus itself, but being unrestrained enough to take public transport without worried texts and calls buzzing on her phone, or the outright banning of her traveling, gave her a sort of freedom high. Her sisters, while they loved her, were not nearly as worried. Mary always just made her promise not to be stupid, and Edith invited her to a lunch date at noon (she hadn't been able to attend, West Nile patients and all.)

Sybil felt spontaneous. She had already sort of stolen a car with Gwen. So when she saw a rally, banners flashing across the sky, she was feeling reckless. Why not go?

* * *

The Supreme Court was a beautiful place.

It's tall, and stately, and appropriately sober. But for the Corinthian columns and carvings at the top, the building was stoic and somber. The people outside of it, however, were far from it.

"WHAT DO WE WANT?"

"EQUALITY!"

"WHEN DO WE WANT IT?"

"NOW!"

The chant was cliche- then again, so was the issue. He supported the Fair Pay Act, of course, but it wasn't enough. It only changed the statute of limitations. Was it an advancement? Of course it was. But they weren't done.

Tom had migrated to the middle of the crowd. He still had his briefcase, though his shirt and tie had been loosened a bit. There were more women in the crowd, but it was a slim majority. He liked that. It wasn't just women who needed to support their rights. Men needed to help them get there, dammit. It needed to be a team effort. Rwanda, Sudan, and even fucking Belarus have more women in their parliaments. Women are the majority in colleges now. Women are the slight majority in the U.S.A. It just wasn't FAIR to have a glass ceiling, reminiscent of days before they could vote or hold a proper job.

Tom threaded his hand through his hair. This is bullshit. It's 2012.

He hadn't said a word since leaving the office. His headache had been getting worse all day, but at he was at ease. Oddly enough, he liked polar opposite social situations- complete engulfment in people(clubs being an exception) and complete solitude. It was probably because he was as alone in a crowd as he was in a chair with the newspaper. Everyone is so caught up in their own minds, their own passions, in a rally, that they mostly forget about everyone else there. That was, until a reactionary anti-protest occurred, which happened far too often.

"Tom?"

Tom froze, his solitude broken. "What are you doing here?" He lowered his hand, which had been resting on his head.

"I'm here for the rally, of course." Sybil pushed past a couple with a sign, who were chanting together. He hadn't turned his gaze from the columns of the building, though she could see Tom's expression was stern and wrought with concern. She realized she hadn't worn makeup, and but for a sweatshirt covering her top, she was still dressed in scrubs. She felt herself shrink a bit. "I saw it on the bus home, and I figured it would be fun. I didn't know what it was about, at first... but I think I'll stay. Who doesn't want equal pay for equal work, right?"

His eyes were closed again, his free hand moved to his left temple,making little circular motions. Easy. "It's easy to get caught up. I don't want you getting lost or kidnapped or something, not to mention if your father caught you-"

"I'm not a kid."

Her interruption got his attention. "Sybil, I'm not trying to say that."

"A lot of people here are from college! I'm plenty old enough!"

He felt a bump behind him. One on Sybil's side pushed her into Tom, stepping on his foot. "Sybil, listen to me, you should leave, we should-"

From the left, the counter protest arrived. Some were businessmen and women who had just gotten off of work, some were more college kids. They had signs and air horns and voices and the signs and air horns and voices of the original protest blended and became more and more frantic as the two started to mesh together.

"We have to leave. Now."

Tom had been to many protests. He was once one of the many college kids in the throng. He was once ready to brawl for his beliefs, and he had. Hell, he would have today, had he arrived without his briefcase. But she hadn't. She didn't know how relentless two people spitting ideas back and forth could be. Well, that probably didn't give her enough credit. She had taken history, after all. But she wasn't ready, at this moment, for a fight. Maybe one day she would be. But not now. He wasn't going to let her get hurt. Not here. Not with him there.

"No! I just got here!"

"Sybil-" He took her hand. She tried to pull away.

She didn't see the man with the picket sign. She didn't see how close the wooden base was to her. She didn't see how it was angled at the back of her head.

A minute later, she didn't see anything.

Tom caught her before she fell on the concrete, and pulled her out of the crowd. She was breathing- he felt her hot breath on his neck. The palm that held her head to his chest began to turn red with blood, mixing with her dark hair. If he had cared to look at it, the dark and red on the yellows and pinks of his hand looked like shadows and a sunset.

When they broke past the crowd, he picked her up and ran. Matthew's office was a block away.

"Oh god, god no."

* * *

Matthew answered the door weary. The day was done. He wanted to go home.

When a breathless, hysterical Tom, and Matthew's unconscious 3rd cousin, were his visitors, he realized that his day had just begun. He looked at Tom, at Sybil, and back at Tom. Poor thing. Tom looked in much worse condition than she.

"We'll take my car."

* * *

When he realized they weren't going to the hospital, Tom was livid. His jaw was clenched, and the dark red of her blood was beginning to stain his pants. She looked far too peaceful to be in any sort of danger. His head throbbed. Hers rested in his lap, leaning into his belly. She took up most of the back seat, stretched out. He wondered what she was thinking, what she was dreaming, if anything.

Matthew drove in silence.

* * *

Tom ran the five minutes to the Crawley house.

If Tom loved crowds and solitude, he hated interviews.

"Who are you?"

Mary was blunt. She was his height in her heels, but had clearly inherited her father's ability to look down the nose from whatever position. If she wasn't younger, Tom would have suspected she had taught it. Her eyebrow was quirked, her dark hair in a bun behind her neck. She had been shopping but a moment ago- her Chanel purse was covered with Tiffany and Hermes shopping bags of blue and orange, a contrast to her all-black outfit. She would have made a great Audrey Hepburn impersonator. She was bored with him already.

"I-" Tom gulped. "Miss Sybil-"

Normally, she would have been more cautious. But his face was white, he was dripping with sweat, and his jittery, bloodshot eyes were pleading.

She dropped her bags.

"Where?"

* * *

Mary had never really run anywhere before, especially not in heels. Her veneer was broken as they entered the door, trying to pry the Louboutins off her swelling feet.

Mrs. Crawley was cleaning the cut with hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin, Matthew next to her.

"Oh my god, Matthew."

"I didn't know what to do, so I brought her here." Matthew gave a weak smile. "She's fine."

Mary collapsed in a chair nearby. "Oh my god, Sybil." Her hand was clamped over her mouth, staring over at her still unconscious sister. "Mamma would have fainted had she seen her like this. As for Papa..." Mary didn't finish her thought, closing her eyes in an attempt to calm herself. She hadn't even taken off her sunglasses or hat yet. "What happened?"

Tom held onto the couch to keep himself standing. "I was at the rally- the one in front of the court-... She came to say hello. A fight broke out-"

Mrs. Crawley softly spoke to her patient, but the room was quiet enough for it to echo. "She'll be fine. It's a scratch, with some bruising. It must of hit her just right. In a few hours, she might have a headache, but she'll be much better."

Matthew could have laughed at their faces of relief, if he wasn't so concerned himself.

"Who are you? You never answered me." Her sunglasses had slipped slightly, and Mary's eyes shifted from Tom to Sybil. "How do you... How do you know her, how do you know my sister?"

"I.." All eyes were on him. He hated public speaking. It was the real opposite of a crowd, in his mind. "I work for Mr. Crawley. I drove her to dress fittings twice when Mr. Crawley couldn't."

"Tom, maybe you should go home." Matthew hadn't meant to sound like a knife to the heart, but he did.

Tom nodded, releasing his hold on the green velvet couch. He had left imprints.

"Yes. You'd better prepare yourself for the full wrath of Mr. Crawley." Mary truly felt sorry for Tom. A mess didn't begin to describe him.

Before he walked out the door, he looked out at the room. The eyes still followed him. "You... You'll tell me how she get's on, right? If she's okay? Please?"

"As you wish."

Tom closed the door to the house. He leaned against it. He was still shaking. Pulling a bottle of Tylenol from his pocket, he tried to get out two, but 3 fell out. He didn't want to put it back. He probably needed the extra dosage, anyway. He slapped his face, trying to pull himself together. Grabbing his briefcase from Matthew's car, he began the long journey back to his house.

He thought about next week.

The full wrath of Mr. Crawley.

Oh god.

_Pretty please review, review, review! _

_Longest one yet, to balance out the last one. Though this is way less kinky.  
_


	8. Sleepyhead

Sybil awoke a few hours later.

"Where am I?" she mumbled. Her head throbbed, and a hand caught hers when she went to rub it.

"You're home." Mary placed the hand back down, and smoothed her sister's hair. "It's not a bad cut, but you were out for a while. You must have taken a nasty fall."

A fall?

Sybil looked down at herself. She was still in her sweatshirt and scrubs. Oh god.

Mary had taken off her dress, but still wore her large, dark, sunglasses, though it was well past eight o'clock at night and they were inside. Her hair was down, and she was in a pair of light pink striped pajamas, reclining on a chair with tea. In her lap was a book, and in the hand that wasn't stroking her sister was a cigarette.

"I thought you'd quit," Sybil croaked. "Last Christmas."

Mary sucked down another lungful, and puffed out a long stream into the air. She had been going for awhile, Sybil figured, by the smell of the room. "It's just a treat for tonight. To calm my nerves. We were going to take you to the hospital if you didn't get up soon."

Sybil smiled. "I could have had a brain hemorrhage and bled to death on your couch, and you wouldn't have noticed."

Mary leaned back in the overstuffed chair, tucking up her ankles to her thighs. "Well, that would have been too bad, wouldn't it?"

Typical Mary.

"I called Mama and Papa."

"What?" Sybil propped herself up on her elbows, eyes widening. "But- Bora Bora-"

"Oh, don't look so worried, they were just getting up, I didn't wake them."

"That's not- What did you tell them?"

Mary shrugged, and took another drag. "I told them that you went to a feminist rally and you hit your head on the pavement and some Tom from his office carried you to Matthew's office, and drove you to his place, and we brought you back later." Another drag. A sigh. Clouds swirled in front of dark glasses. "Papa was so worried. I said you were alright. He's going to stay for the rest of the week, but plans to handle it promptly upon his arrival. Thank god you didn't die there, imagine the trouble I would be in." Mary let out a little laugh at her own half joke. Sybil couldn't tell what her emotions were. She seemed jittery, and her veiled eyes couldn't give any hints.

"Have you been crying?"

Silence.

"Mary?"

"I was worried. So was Matthew."

"I'm sorry."

"I'd feel more sorry for whoever that man was who brought you over. Tom Beanstalk, was it? He was beside himself." She dropped off the ends of her sentences, resting her hands on her knees. She was tired, so very tired. "He walked home, to wherever he lived. Thank god Matthew had a car. You'd probably be dead otherwise."

Sybil wanted to disagree. If she had made it on her couch, she probably would have made it on his. The thought of being on anything of his made her blush, and she went back to reality. "What did you give me? For treatment?"

"Mrs. Crawley put on some Neosporin." Mary quelched her cigarette into a Waterford bowl she was using as an ashtray. Four cigarette butts stuck out of the ashes. "And rest. Which you should probably continue to do."

"Have you seen Gwen?"

"Who?"

"The red haired girl who works here?"

"A maid?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Yes."

"She works tomorrow. Daisy's in today." Mary reached for her tea, which had already gone cold. She twirled the tag around her finger, rotating the cup in her hand.

Sybil nodded. "I'd be more comfortable in my own bed."

"Can you stand?"

She could. It was a little like the opening scene in _Bambi_, but otherwise she was okay. After hobbling up a flight of steps, closely followed by Mary, Sybil made it to bed. Mary placed a little kiss on her forehead and tucked her in. "Don't do anything foolish anymore," Mary whispered, and went out the door. Her breath still carried the stale smell of cigarettes and lipstick. It left a bad taste in her mouth.

* * *

Tom knew he wouldn't sleep, but it was worth a try.

The Tylenol hadn't helped much. All it had done was given him the jitters, and he was already quite jittery enough. He had stopped shaking, but not after reading the Post thrice over. He was certain that he had looked like a drunkard on the way home. It had taken him at least an hour and a half.

Tom closed his eyes, breathing gently. His blanket, draped over his head, rose and fell slightly with the pattern. In. Out. In. Out.

He was too hot under the blanket, but it was comforting. There was something he found off about sleeping naked. In Quincy and Boston, it was normally to cold to do anyway, except in summer. Here, it was almost mid-August, and he wanted to crawl out of his skin. Tom left his boxers on.

All he could see behind his eyes was red. The ceiling fan clinked and shook. The incandescent bulbs cast a heavy light that penetrated his blanket and his eyelids.

He wondered if she was still bleeding. If she was okay.

It was eleven o'clock.

His phone, his alarm, was next to him on his desk.

He shouldn't.

It was late.

She would be asleep.

He should be asleep.

He scrolled through his received call list, until he found the number that had called him a few days ago.

The phone rung.

"Hello?"

"Tom?"

* * *

She had been asleep.

Sybil had kicked off the pants to her scrubs, and snuggled in her sweatshirt under thick blankets and a teddy bear. She had always felt cold lately, especially in the sterile environment of the hospital she was so often in. It was nice to feel something warm against her skin. She had shaven her legs this morning. She didn't normally wear skirts, so she typically skipped, but she had wanted to stay in the bath longer, and used it as an excuse. She rubbed them together, and enjoyed the friction. She hated wearing pants to bed, but kept on socks. Her legs were free to breathe.

She had just settled into slumber when her phone buzzed on her nightdesk, where it had been charging. Her breath caught at the caller ID.

"Hello?"

A pause. Sybil tucked her legs up to her chest, protectively. She wasn't sure what she was protecting herself from. The quiet stretched on.

"Tom?" she choked out.

"Hi."

"Hi."

She heard a sharp intake of air. He was just as surprised as she was at his call. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Good."

A sigh. Sybil could almost see his relief. She clutched her teddy bear closer, with a little smile. Throughout middle and high school, she had only been called by boys a handful of times- communication typically came in lewd texts. Usually they took the hint that she wasn't interested pretty fast, and the other calls were about projects. He was worried about her. Her teeth grabbed her lower lip and took it in. She was nervous. He was miles away, and she was embarrassed to talk to him. Oh god. She felt herself blush, which only made her shame worse. Why was she ashamed to feel nervous around him? She needn't feel shame in it, really. But she shouldn't be nervous, either. There weren't any reasons with good answers for her to be nervous.

"Sybil?"

"Yes?"

Another sharp breath.

"How did you get my number?"

And so it began.

_Heehee. Please review! Thank you to those who have! :)_

_Modern Mary is super fun to write.  
_


	9. Heart Skipped A Beat

Sybil had never really liked coffee. As much as she hated herself for it, she loved the drinks that claimed to contain coffee but were mostly syrups and whips of some sort. She got tea instead today. Earl Grey. Bland. Boring. She began to rethink her choice. Was she too stuffy if she got the incredibly complicated order she wanted? Would he think she was trying to watch her weight if she just had black tea? Or would it just be lame? A latte was too common. Her finger traced the name on her cup. The barista had drawn a little rainbow coming from a smiling cloud that rained hearts. Did she look sad? Was that why he drew it? Did she always over think things?

She didn't want to go to a Starbucks, and instead chose a local coffee shop that she often went to with her friends from the hospital and sometimes Gwen. She liked the exposed brick and the graffiti on the walls, the concrete floor covered in paint stains, the big windows, and the leather couch that she sunk into. A few other patrons hung around, tucked behind their laptops or books, or whispering to their companion. Her elbows were on her knees. She stared into the tea. Through the steam, she could see her reflection. The pool of brown-red water stared back at her, like it had leaked from a rusty pipe. It smelled delicious though. He would be here soon. She wasn't sure how to feel about it. It was a good thing, she hoped. She should be glad. After all, she asked him to come. But, naturally, she was nervous. Her shorts were right for the weather outside, but it was just air conditioned enough in the building to make her uncomfortable. She pulled her leather jacket tighter around, and cradled her hot tea, her sleeves insulating her hands from the hot cup of freshly boiled water and herbs. It was probably too hot for tea, anyway. Who drinks tea, in the middle of the day, in August?

This was a terrible idea. He wouldn't be here. She was an idiot. Mary was right.

She couldn't blame him. She was too young for him. She couldn't drink, or smoke. She was just going off to college. He was so handsome. He could have anyone he wanted, she imagined, and she wouldn't be the first nor the last to pine for him.

Sybil thought of the celebrity crushes that a few other girls had. She took a sip of tea. If you hadn't met someone, they couldn't reject you. That must be comforting. They had told her about their vibrators between giggles and how they could just pretend, how imagination was a magical thing. Sybil had hardly been kissed, so her fantasies weren't exactly imaginative. Sip. Not that she had fantasies. Well, not many. She usually just thought about the warmth of another body holding hers, kissing, and maybe heavy petting. Whenever she imagined kissing a man, he had stubble that would grate against the soft skin of her cheek. It was in her imagination that she discovered she liked biting(though not anything like those godawful vampire stories that had become so popular). Just a strong forearm around her back, Tom's forehead on hers…

No. She wasn't going to have "feelings" for Tom in the middle of a coffee shop. She shouldn't have feelings for Tom at all.

Sybil tucked one hand under her opposite armpit for warmth and sipped her tea. Yes, she supposed tea was an acceptable beverage after all.

The bell chimed.

She looked up.

He gave an apologetic smile.

"Sorry I'm late."

* * *

Tom got a black coffee. It was hot and strong and thick as tar and the whole thing was like 16 ounces of an expresso shot. It was perfect. He hoped it wasn't too boring.

"What kept you?" Sybil had one arm propped on the little cafe table, holding up her chin. The other spun her cup around in her hand on the table.

"Work. We don't have much of a window for breaks." He sipped his coffee. Not bad.

He was surprised she had asked him here. He had been in no mood to argue how it wouldn't be appropriate and whatnot on the phone the other night, and was just thankful she was alive. Well, expecting death would have been an overreaction. But his worry had still been warranted.

"Oh." She paused, and the cup rotated in the other direction. She tried to imagine what the Earth looked like from space, rotating while orbiting. The movement of her tea was a terrible scale model. "Do you like it? Working in law?"

"Yes. It's fun."

"Hmmm."

Tom hated interviews.

"So, you're alright?" he asked, taking another sip.

"What?"

"Your head?"

"Oh. Yes." She smiled at her tea. "Everything is just as broken as it was before."

Tom let out a laugh. He had a beautiful laugh.

Sybil lifted her eyes to smile at him.

"Is D.C. better than Boston?"

"I like the public transport better in Boston, but otherwise it's pretty okay. They're not really similar at all, at least in my eyes, so a comparison of the two would be invalid at best."

"Oh?"

She said that a lot. She should stop saying "oh" so much.

"Yes, well, it's not reflecting negatively on either."

"I'm going to school there, soon." Sybil took a sip of her tea, and bit the rim of it. This cup wasn't styrofoam, and luckily didn't break. "I was just wondering what the differences were."

"It's colder."

"Thank you, I almost missed that part."

They smiled at each other. Sybil thought of all of those old stories and films of relationships. But for movies when the two actors have some sort of immediate passionate encounter, they tended to start awkwardly. Maybe bumping into each other every once in awhile, maybe locking eyes in class a little more than coincidentally, maybe a chance conversation. But there was always the point where they would share a glance. Look right into the other's eyes. She would never admit how much she loved sappy romance novels. She had never cried harder than when she first saw _The Notebook._

"You mean, you want something that isn't obvious?"

"If you would, please."

"Well..."

* * *

"You guys snuck on campus?"

"Well, it wasn't that hard."

"Were they mad?"

"God no. We weren't in a frat, we didn't leave a symbol, and whoever was supposed to be watching that night was a slacker. It was pretty easy, but it was one of the stupidest things I did, considering we got caught."

"Where?"

"Campus PD at BU found a bunch of kids with spray paint in crimson and white, and the only ID the two of us had on us were Harvard student IDs..."

Sybil laughed, covering her face. "Oh. My. God."

"Well, we got reprimanded, but not much else. The Dean of Student Affairs at Harvard Dean made us call our parents and the Dean of BU to apologize, but that was pretty much it. We hadn't done anything that didn't go on at the school all the time. We were just on their turf."

"They called your parents?"

"They couldn't really do much else, we hadn't broken any rules. I mean, it's there to be spray painted."

"But the Greek Rock-"

"Eh, it's covered by so many paint layers, nobody probably remembers the time the Harvard kids messed with it."

Tom had a dumb smirk planted on his face. He hadn't expected to brag about his college years until he was at least thirty. He felt like a senior adviser to a giddy freshman.

"Oh my god." Sybil wiped a tear out of her eye. "Wow. So you were the wild child."

"My brother was worse. He was the wilder child. I mostly stuck to my books, with the exception of a few shenanigans."

Their beverages had been empty of nearly an hour. People had come and gone.

"I'm wild for being liberal. I won't be arrested for it, but I may as well be."

Tom quirked an eyebrow. "Wild, eh?"

"Dad is probably much more disappointed that I attended the rally in the first place rather than worried that I was hurt in the process."

His teeth clenched, jaw locking in place like it was the only thing keeping his head on his shoulders. Other than that, there was little indication that he was deeply perturbed by her comment. She hadn't said it like it was a secret. Like it was commonplace, expected, to be ostracized for having different political views. It was natural for Mr. Crawley to be a conservative. It would fit his interests, as a wealthy individual, and there was no way to blame him for it. But Tom didn't take him for the type to shame others for their affiliations.

Sybil always tried to rationalize her father's frequent inflammatory commentary on the fact that he had grown up in a deeply religious household, and while a similar upbringing had made his mother, Grandma Violet, rely on the words of Leviticus and Deuteronomy to be her guide, claimed he always adhered to the "hate the sin, love the sinner," mentality, though it seemed he only had limited success. Sybil hadn't had a real conflict with him about it yet; he did not emphasize how different he was from her over the dinner table, nor anywhere else. But he certainly knew how she felt, and it hadn't been a problem yet.

Tom's temper burned silently, flames rising up through his chest, smoke clouding around his brain, his thoughts muddling and steaming, becoming cooked with an inexplicable and unjustified anger. He felt his teeth, trapped in a cage of sandpaper, grind together. "Hmm."

The change in his tone thickened the air around her. Sybil tried to backpedal. "He's really not all bad. He just doesn't have much of a tolerance for liberals."

"I imagine he must have been quite surprised to find a girl does not want to be paid less than a man, then?"

"That's not how he sees the argument."

"I wouldn't think it would be."

"Tom, Mary told him you were there."

He nodded, twisting the empty cup in his hands like he was preparing a noose.

"Dad will probably want to talk to you about it."

Nod.

"I don't want to jump to conclusions, but when he's mad, he's unreasonable."

"So you're saying my job might be in jeopardy?"

Sybil hesitated. To be honest, she wasn't sure what his reaction would be, at all. Her father always had a scapegoat; he could blame it entirely on her, entirely on Tom, or entirely on himself, his wife, anyone. "It's possible."

Tom inhaled deeply and fixed his gaze out the window, and accidentally cursed under his breath. "Shit." He had done so well in stopping that habit, too. This was probably the best job he could get as a twenty three year old with limited references. Hell, this was probably the best job a thirty-something could get with ten references. The pay was shit, but it looked damn good on a resume and you make unbelievable connections when you work for so-called "old money" people. Or so he was hoping.

Well, fuck. He dragged himself off of the bar stool he sat on, taking his empty cup with him. "I'd better not be late and give them any more reasons to sack me then, eh?" The corner of his mouth flickered up briefly into a half-smile, before returning to the line which had formed. "Thanks for the warning. And the invitation. Lovely to know you healed up nice." He shrugged his jacket over his shoulders, and straightened the lapels, and to try to make up for being an ass, he tried to give a cordial goodbye. "Have a great rest of your day."

Well, that was a terrible attempt.

As he turned to leave, Sybil caught his jacket by the elbow. She hadn't planned to, not meant to, and when her eyes caught his, she blubbered, unsure of what to say.

"Thank you for saving my life, Tom."

He let out a shot of air from his nose in a manner resembling a laugh. He gave a genuine smile, though it echoed of sadness. She pitied him. How insulting. "Matthew did that, remember? I couldn't have run to a hospital- without him, and his car, I couldn't have done anything."

"And if you hadn't gotten me out of there, I likely would have been trampled to death." He was facing away from her, brooding. "Please, I'm serious, listen. Oh god, Tom, look at me."

He did.

"Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, really, really do."

Her earnest expression made him feel awfully self-conscious. Tom really wanted to go back to being Mr. Branson to her. He couldn't just meet her at coffee shops like this, for Christ's sake. She was seventeen. "Don't mention it."

"I won't let him fire you for this, you know."

"I'm sure Mr. Crawley will do what he pleases."

"I won't let him."

Tom shook his head. "I'd like to believe that."

"Please do. Believe in me."

"I really have to go, Miss Sybil. I have work to do, but thank you."

She let go.

The door was halfway pushed open, the bell tinkling with the force, when she spoke again.

"Tom?"

He glanced back over his shoulder expectantly.

Sybil didn't know what to say. She didn't want him to leave. She didn't want him fired because of her. She wanted to hear about his college antics, listen to his Boston accent, his laugh. her voice caught in her throat. What could she say to him? Apologize, maybe? She inhaled, brows kneading, and crossed her arms, looking away. She chewed on her lip.

He sighed. "See you later, then."

She exhaled when the door closed, and the bell hit against the glass.

Under her breath, she whispered out at a mural on the opposite wall. "See you later, then."

_PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU, DEAR READER, WOULD LIKE THE CHAPTERS HOW THEY ARE(1500-2500 words) OR MAKE LONGER, FEWER CHAPTERS(3000-5000 words)_

_Yay! I had exams, sorry this took so long. Finally got it finished! Sorry for making you wait and then giving you a chapter with an angsty ending._

_Review please please please please please!_


	10. Hard to Explain

Mr. and Mrs. Crawley arrived a day late. There had been a delay with the flight, something about hydraulic fluid in the plane. Mr. Crawley had taken off yesterday, too, to recuperate and try to overcome his jet lag. To Tom, the waiting was the most difficult part of anything. The lack of certainty made him feel like a fly thrashing in a spiderweb, trying to bide his time while he waits for his execution. He hadn't slept the night before, and upon leaving his bed and inspecting the mirror, the deprivation and stress was reflected in his features. His face, grey with worry, framed rummy rings, red thorns tangled in red threads stabbing through the whites of his eyes. He rubbed his face, grating rough hands along his unshaven chin and cheeks. Contacts, he supposed, would only make his eyes redder, and he opted for his oft-neglected glasses, though they were too large for his face.

Tom sank to the floor, knees to his chest and back to the toilet, combing his hands through his hair, still matted from sleep. He had avoided taking a shower this morning, as someone hadn't yet paid the gas bill and the whole building lacked hot water. It felt like he was petting a stray dog. His back was cold against the porcelain, and he thumbed the temples that began to beat and throb against his head. He wanted sleep, and possibly a drink.

He could call in sick to work, he supposed, but he was not so easily conquered. He pulled himself up and into the shower, pulling on the knob and allowing what could only be describe as "liquid glacier" trickled down his form. He wished it was hot, not only for comfort, but also in hopes he would melt in the warmth and trickle right along with it down the drain. It would be quite convenient to escape, through the drain. Maybe he should call in sick.

He hadn't taken off his glasses. The water streaked the lenses like small windshield, reminding him of the car he didn't own.

The car he couldn't drive her in.

Shampoo clouded his view like thick fog. He closed his eyes and rubbed his head, trying to coax out the pain that lingered behind his eyes. Coffee would likely help.

The towels hadn't been washed in awhile. Tom caught a glance of his nakedness in the mirror. It wasn't full length, so he couldn't properly size up the situation. How long had it been since he had been to the gym? Or, for that matter, anywhere that wasn't his apartment or an office? A damn long time would be a proper estimate. He ran his fingers down his still wet arm. Still taut, but not exactly defined. They moved to his stomach. Passable. His abs were still visibly separate, if you looked hard enough. He had never been worthy of being an oiled up swimsuit model, to be sure, but there was room for improvement. Maybe a diet that consisted of something other than pizza and Chinese would be a good start.

Maybe he was just bloated.

If he hung around too long, he was going to be late.

Tom left the bathroom feeling much less encouraged than when he came in.

* * *

Mr. Crawley stepped into the office.

He was usually quite punctual, but he was one of the last to arrive today. He was still groggy from the long flight, and was none to excited to be getting up in the morning. His suit was as crisp and sharp as always, though the body it held was weary. "Good morning all," Mr. Crawley spoke like a king to his subjects as he strolled through the office. "I've trust you've all been getting on well since my departure?" His eyes scanned his small kingdom. Tom felt himself swallow air.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Mr. Crawley's eyes rested on Tom for only a split second longer than the others.

That was it. He was done. Fired with a glance. He coughed. There was still time to be sick.

Mr. Crawley passed the desks one by one.

Carson's.

Anna's.

His heart was in his throat.

O'Brien's.

William's.

It's over.

Thomas's.

Bates's.

His.

And Mr Crawley closed the door to his office.

Tom had never felt more relief in his life.

* * *

The morning went as usual.

Tom was still on edge, of course. But he was much more relaxed than he had been that morning. He managed to have bits of conversation with Mr. Crawley, even. ("Did you have time to review the Thrushcross Estate's work?" "No, Branson, I haven't, I could use a briefing. Highlight the important bits and bring it to me later.") But he did not dare feel safe until he was home. Until the door were locked, he wore only his boxers, and his face was covered in a pillow. It was 7pm. Far too early to sleep, just too late for a stroll in the park. Well, it wasn't too late, but by the time he got there it probably would be.

He hated how he felt lately. He had short periods of contentedness and longer periods of frustration and anxiety. Maybe because his neighbors never shut up, the sounds outside his windows never stopped, his poor diet, because he didn't drink enough coffee or exercise enough. Or maybe it was because he was lonely. He hadn't been able to engage anyone at the office beyond a water cooler chat or hellos and goodbyes, and he didn't really go anywhere else.

Sybil didn't count as a friend.

Acquaintance, maybe. Possibly not even. But not a friend. Not her. No.

Maybe the pillow would smother him and he wouldn't have to think about work and his headaches and shitty apartment and her and how tired he was.

It was never to early to sleep, was it?

* * *

Sybil looked down at her peas.

Her parents arrived very late at night, and she had to leave early for work later that morning, so other than a momentary "welcome home" hug, she had seen hide nor hair of either of her parents, which suited her just fine. She was still fuming at Mary, but her emotions more and more turned to worry about how her father would handle it. Her mother, of course, would have little say. She took a bite of fish. The buttery sauce felt acrid. Every bite tasted like an apple pip, chalky and hard and sour. However, she was starving, and she would rather eat now rather than feel lightheaded later. Mary wasn't eating, but twirled her fork around her plate. She was the tallest of the three girls, and her dark hair and eyes on her pale skin was stunning. Her sister was so beautiful, but she had stints where she was frightfully thin. It worried her. It had a horrible effect on Edith, who would try to follow suit, but would fail to skip meals Mary would and Sybil could hear her sister crying from the room across from hers. Edith was really lovely, too. She had gotten Nana M's hair color, a fantastic, brilliant hue in a family of dark brown. Edith would often complain about it, though. Granny, who was in attendance at dinner tonight, hardly saw anything positive in the other matriarch, and withheld commentary whenever Edith changed her hair. But otherwise, her features were a good mix of her mother's and father's, cheeks that were plump and rosey, her eyes that were wide and curious, and the tip of her nose curled up a bit on the rare occasion when she smiled. But Edith would never see it that way. In her own eyes, she would always be the ugly duckling.

She wondered what her sisters saw when they looked at her.

"Sybil, darling?"

"Hmm?" Roused from her trance, she met the concerned eyes of her mother. "Yes, mom?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

Sybil had gotten her mother's kind eyes, but she had never mastered the look that her mother could give, inquisitive and pressing, and mildly threatening. Mary had inherited that look. Her mother's threats were early bedtimes, though. Mary's threats were more like pleas. They begged for you to lie so she could enjoy the fun of exposing you, even if the only audience was herself. Mary didn't need to use that look often.

"I'm fine, mom."

"Did you go to bed late while we were gone?"

Mary's silverware clinked on the surface of her plate. Edith peered over at her sister from the top of her wine glass.

"No, not really."

"Did you go out anywhere the night before?" Mr. Crawley cut into his mashed potatoes, accomplishing nothing but trying to distract himself.

Sybil saw Mary staring at her. She almost looked apologetic. "No."

"I heard you did go out when we were gone. Last Tuesday, was it?"

Edith looked between Mary and Sybil, setting down her cup. She knew the tone well. Her mother stiffened. "Robert, please."

"How was seeing the liberal speakers, hm?"

"There were several speakers, actually." It was a lie, or a very thin truth, if you counted the counter-protesters.

"Did any of them speak well?"

Edith looked uneasily at Mary, who was too busy staring at the scene before her to give any inkling of explanation, though it was unlikely she would have given it anyway.

"I thought so."

"I heard the whole thing turned into quite the brouhaha." Her father set down his utensils on his plate. the handle end of the fork sunk into the butter sauce, and his knife was suspended upward by a fluffy potato pile.

Sybil sucked in a breath and straightened her back, facing him her head held at least moderately high. "You know what those things can be like."

"I do." His open palm slapped the white tablecloth. Plates jumped. The candles on the table flickered a bit. Mary winced. Mrs. Crawley patted her daughters hand discreetly, out of her husband's view. "Which is why I am ASTONISHED that you didn't ask my permission."

Sybil pursed her lips.

"I assume this was Branson's scheme."

"Wh-" Sybil's eyes widened. She looked to Mary, who seemed just as surprised as she. Of course Mary had told him, but said only what she KNEW. That conclusion was entirely their father's own. "What? No, I-"

"I admit," he interrupted, "I was amused at the idea of some Northern liberal kid working in my office, but I see now how idiotic I must be to have ever CONSIDERED him."

"Give me some credit, dad! I was the one who went. He happened to be there. He had NOTHING to do with me."

Her Grandmother had been uncharacteristically quiet. Unfortunately for Sybil, she didn't remain that way. "Sybil, what in God's name is your father talking about?"

"I went to a rally, grandma."

"A _liberal_ rally," Mr. Crawley snorted.

"I know what she meant." Grandma Violet looked aghastly at her granddaughter."I just don't know what she was thinking."

Mary's brow was knitted, face set in a frown. She was beginning to regret telling her father at all. "I think Sybil is-"

Grandma was becoming incensed. "What? Are you intent on joining her? Did you go too?"

"-entitled to her opinions."

"Her husband will tell her her opinions when she's married."

Mary couldn't contain herself. Even for Grandma, that was ridiculous. "Grandma, really?"

"I knew you wouldn't understand." Sybil went to stand up.

"You have not yet been excused, Sybil. Sit back down."

She had the majority approval. Edith and Mary and her mother were all rooting for her. Well, at least she hoped so. She could leave.

It was entirely women at the table but for her father. It was bullshit that he was the one to call all the shots, the end-all-be-all when he was outnumbered.

She sat.

"I assume won't be able to attend the debutante ball come January?"

"Is there a reason I shouldn't be, Grandma?" Sybil hid behind her water glass.

"You don't curtsey before Kings in June after being arrested at a riot in May."

Sybil muttered under her breath something about just causes and tolerant rulers and democracy, but it was ignored.

Her mother gripped her daughter's hand, more supportive and firmer than last time."Sybil wasn't arrested, and it wasn't a riot."

Edith looked from her father to Sybil. "It might be next time."

"There will not be a next time, Edith." Her father set down his wine glass as if he had signed a decree.

Sybil sighed.

* * *

That night, she sat up, thoughts swirling.

Goddamn it, dad.

She wondered if he was fired already.

She wouldn't call him. Not yet. She wouldn't tell him how angry her father had been. They seemed to rightly be mad at her. He didn't really seem to be a major concern of anyone, and hoped it remained that way. He didn't deserve to lose his job over this, especially because he essentially saved her life.

The black of her room stared at her, and Sybil stared back.

"Sorry, Tom. I'm so sorry."

_PLEASE REVIEW! Thank you to all of the lovely people who have and do! You're what keeps me going!_

_I tried to make the dialogue of the dinner pretty __close to what was said- it's fun to convert 1910 speak to more modern lingo. Violet seems super extreme in this setting._

_Until next time!  
_


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